Two old palings lean together. One wets a rolly
wrist all knobs and gristle
Staring ahead chipped syllables like a stream
run over mountains—
Too many winters up in the hills while spring
grassed the turned graves
unmarked. Unmarked. The minaret felled and
tanks on the highways—
Doleful, the other agrees—and there’s talk and talk
says nothing. Emphatically,
he gobs onto the pebblecrete a green jewel, his heart
glistens in the sunshine.
Above birds crowd the eaves and branches.
Doll-eyed they remember,
rue the day they let Tippi Hedren pass, love
birds at her breast. Never
more. Ravens above, trios of magpies busk a chip
purchase on plastic chairs.